By John McCutcheon (Submitted by Doug Berg)
Editors note: The following are the verses from a song by John McCutcheon. I felt they could stand alone as a story/poem. The story is true. The commanding officer of the British forces was court-martialed for “consorting with the enemy” and sentenced to death. Only a pardon by King George V spared him.
A wonderful statement of the meaning of Christmas, I feel.
My name is Francis Tolliver, I come
from Liverpool.
Two years ago the war was waiting for
me after school,
To Belgium and to Flanders, to
Germany, to here,
I fought for King and country I love dear.
‘Twas Christmas in the trenches, where
the frost, so bitter, hung.
The frozen fields of France were still, no
Christmas song was sung.
Our families back in England were
toasting us that day.
Those brave and glorious lads so far
away.
I was lying with my messmates on the
cold and rocky ground,
When across the lines of battle came a
most peculiar sound.
Says I, “Now listen up, me boys!” each
soldier strained to hear,
As one young German voice sang out so
clear.
“He’s singing bloody well, you know!”
my partner says to me.
Soon, one by one, each German voice
joined in, in harmony.
The cannons rested silent, the gas
clouds rolled no more,
As Christmas gave us respite from the
war.
As soon as they were finished and a
reverent pause was spent,
“God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” struck
up some lads from Kent.
The next they sang as “Stille Nacht”,
“Tis ‘Silent Night” says I,
And in two tongues one song filled up
that sky.
“There’s someone coming toward us!”
The front line sentry cried.
All sights were fixed on one lone figure
trudging from their side.
His truce flag, like a Christmas star,
shone on that plain so bright.
As he, bravely, strode unarmed into the
night.
Soon one by one on either side walked
into No Man’s Land.
With neither gun nor bayonet we met
there hand to hand.
We shared some secret brandy and
wished each other well,
And in a flare-lit soccer game we
gave ‘em hell.
We traded chocolates, cigarettes, and
photographs from home,
These sons and fathers far away from
families of their own.
Young Sanders played his squeeze box
and they had a violin,
This curious and unlikely band of men.
Soon daylight stole upon us and France
was France once more.
With sad farewells we each prepared to
settle back to war.
But the question haunted every heart
that lived that wondrous night,
“Whose family have I fixed within my
sights?”
‘Twas Christmas in the tranches where
the frost, so bitter, hung.
The frozen fields of France were warmed
as songs of peace were sung.
For the walls they’d kept between us to
exact the work of war,
Had been crumbled and were gone
forevermore.
My name is Francis Tolliver, in
Liverpool I dwell.
Each Christmas come since World War I,
I’ve learned it’s lessons well–
That the ones who call the shots won’t
be among the dead and lame,
And on each end of the rifle we’re
the same.